Kingcleaver
From The Kingcleaver, in Anthology of Chains: Sammon extinguished the flame and slammed the torch down. She reached over to her glass of thresh and downed a mouthful. ‘I don’t restore dusty broken statues for the Faith. So, unless you have something real to offer me, a certain individual would be wise to get their gods-blessed arse out of my shop.’ The priest smiled. ‘Have you ever been told the tale of how the War of Three Hundred Years ended?’ ‘Every dimwit child knows that story. The king, a merchant and a sailor-’ ‘No. I’m not referring to the story that farmers tell to their children. I’m talking about history. Forgotten history, which my church has been working to discover for years. There wasn’t just one king - there were four. Four monarchs, who each ruled an army and claimed the West Continent. After three hundred years, the casualties were high. It had become a war of attrition, and death was a constant companion. People were born, lived an entire lifetime and died during a single battle. ‘One of the warring kings, Narzal, was powerful with the illusion magic of Lassar. He had dedicated years to casting powerful enchantments over his camps and his armies. The spells were so strong that nobody knew where his army even was. There was just the slaughter when the army attacked. Narzal’s armies attacked the other three, and they crumbled. There were few casualties for Narzal, and his army only grew in strength. The war continued in this fashion for a decade. ‘The other three monarchs realized that the focus of the fight had shifted. Instead of a mutual fight between four armies, the war had evolved into the three armies against Narzal. They needed to end the war soon, before their people disappeared entirely. The three monarchs agreed to a meeting to decide on the best action. ‘Iridius, the King from the South, said that the three armies should march across the continent, together, until they found Narzal. Dellaroy, the White Mountain Queen, argued that there would not be enough supplies for the tens of thousands of soldiers to wander around aimlessly for any worthwhile period of time. Instead, she proposed that they should meet with Narzal himself under the pretense of a surrender, then have most powerful spellcasters assassinate the illusion king. ‘During the bickering, Thactorus the Saviour had his servants bring a great cleaver into the room. Its blade was broad and covered with runes, and its pommel was as black as the darkest of nights. This was the Kingcleaver, he told his two rivals. His artificers, priests and pilgrims had been labouring to design and craft it for five years. A powerful gem in the pommel drew magical energy in, essentially negating the effects of any sorcery on the holder. The blade was smithed with spells that would allow it to pass, unhindered, through any magical defenses. ‘One week later, Iridius’ fiercest champion was given the cleaver. Along with a guide from Dellaroy’s army and a Hexmage from Thactorus’ personal guard, the warrior rode north. Within one month, they had found the camp. The guide and the Hexmage were stunned, dazed, by the illusion magic. But the champion walked right up through Narzal’s camp and up to his personal tent. The cleaver protected him from the illusions and trickery. There was no merchant, no sailor, who ended the war. Just a soldier. With one swing, he decapitated the illusion king and ended the war that had been raging for three centuries. The following events are common history. Thactorus and Dellaroy wed in their new Kingdom of Astor, and Iridius rode a thoroughly relieved army south to his new Kingdom of Dragha.’ Lyman slid the wooden cover from the box. ‘This is not a broken church statue. I’ve brought you the very reason that you and I can do business in Var’stead. The cleaver that ended the War of Three Hundred Years. This is the Kingcleaver.’ Sammon stared at the priest. She was thoroughly impressed. She hadn’t realized how captivated she was by the tale until Lyman finished, looking at her expectantly. ‘You have earned the right to exist in my shop,’ Sammon said. She wasn’t pleased to admit it, but the old man had truly delivered. She finished off her thresh with a grimace, as the bitter alcoholic drink seared her throat. Lyman picked up the cleaver with two hands. ‘Would you like to see?’ Sammon stood. She took the cleaver. The handle was as long as her arm, the blade wide. The pommel was jet black, blacker than obsidian. There was a second blade attached to the back of the handle. She examined the cleaver, touched it, felt its soul. It was broken - a sizeable chunk of the blade was missing. Many of the runes had worn away, and the wooden handle was knobbly and rough like a twisted tree. But beneath the physical damage, the skill in the smithing was evident, the construction flawless. This was a weapon that took five years to create. A weapon that ended the war of centuries. The Kingcleaver was stunning.